


and it was bright as a burning sky

by whiskeyinthejar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, RMS Titanic, a lot of both, and sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyinthejar/pseuds/whiskeyinthejar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The sea air is sharp, and they are in love for five days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and it was bright as a burning sky

**Author's Note:**

> For [Han](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/larrypls), because it is her birthday, and because she is wonderful.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events should be in no way associated with any person, and I do not profit from or intend to offend.

**10 th April**

The sea air is sharp.

Louis breathes it in, the salt from the water in the sky around him. For all the people around him, he cannot see the sea itself, but it is enough to have it fill his lungs. Surely he will be seeing enough of it in the days to come.

Even the crowd cannot mask the sleek lines of the ship. She is a triumph; each grainy photo he has seen cannot compare to this. Her size is impossible, funnels standing proud and blowing smoke into the air as if it were not poisoned enough. He has lost sight of his family. Perhaps it is because of his inferiority to man’s structures. In this shadow, he is nothing.

The planks join land to vessel. As if they have rehearsed, the crowd part from them; most of them mask their jealously poorly. In them, Louis can see the faces of his parents’ friends. He has been told that he shall be making history, to travel on this ship. It is becoming less hard to believe now that he has come to stand here.

It is fortunate he had taken his jacket. Winds soar in from the ocean, crossing miles of water to graze his skin, and their touches are frigid for all that they are caresses.

Louis is caught in his staring. Whilst he is so trapped, someone else has his hustled on to the ship, crossing the bridge with no thought of whether he may fall.  
He does not fall, though.

Later, he is told the captain had greeted them all. In his daze, Louis cannot reclaim the memory, though it must have happened. There are no lies amongst the first class, unless it is deemed appropriate.  
In fact, there is hardly truth to be found.

Wooden panels and thick carpet. These mark his suite with their opulence, as he is marked with his status. He waits, patiently (and not so), for his parents to leave him, before crossing to the window. Each footstep leaves an indent in the carpet in his shape.

They have not yet left the harbour, and the waves that lap the metal sides are gentle. It is an April morning –perhaps afternoon now, but surely it is not past midday– and the sky is painted with pastel blues. Swept over the blue are clouds, marring the expanse with their pale arcs and Louis wishes it were clear. Perhaps, if it were, he could see straight through the colour into the heavens.

There is hours yet before dinner. Perhaps he shall feign seasickness, so he may avoid luncheon. Louis is certain, in the vague way all sons are, that his mother shall know better than to trust his word. That is what comes for all the pretences told in his earlier years.

Quite a horde of people has amassed outside on the Southampton dockside. Louis cannot make out each face from here; they blur and meld together like running watercolours. Still, they wait to wave them off.

He wonders, briefly, if any of their friends have come to see the last of them. It is unlikely.

Now he is inside, in this room far too large for just his small frame, his coat hangs heavy over his shoulders. If he were wise, he would leave the view to take it off, and make his way to rejoin his family. There was a crew member here not too long ago, but he has left now. He must have left when Louis’s parents also pulled away from his presence.

Louis turns away from the window to remove his jacket with the mass of people imprinted onto his eyes. He means to return to gaze once more at the harbour, but it slips his mind, and he never does.

* * *

The first time is preceded by dinner.

Across his body, Louis’s suit is fitted. It is his best suit, and fits him well. (His second best is tight across the shoulders, but he shall bear it rather than whine). Their table has three families. They are all on model behaviour here; one false step and they shall be burnt black with shame. It is a tightrope, this dining room, and they all walk it.

Next to Louis is a woman in deep purple. Sapphires (they must be, unless they are false) wound around her neck glint with the lighting, and the pins reflect with gold.

Despite all her shine, Louis does not look at her for the whole meal.

Across from him is someone he has never seen before, and he was sure he knew everyone. His parents have made sure of that, with their social dinners and parties.

Yet here he is. It is a curious situation, for Louis to find himself grasping for words.

Someone is saying something. It is from another party, at the end of the table; one man, his cheeks reddened with the fine wine they serve, is hollering to them all about the dreadful state of the lower classes.

Louis is not sure what it is the lower classes have done, except to have escaped this dinner, with its glass chandeliers and many types of forks.  
It is becoming a night where he drinks more than he should, if only to loosen his limbs and to quieten the noise around him.

The glass has only just been lowered when another voice joins the fray. It is low, rough at the edges and rich in between; this alone is enough for Louis to lift his head from the white china of his plate.  
It is the boy across from him speaking. Louis will soon lose himself in the clever movements of his mouth, if he does not look out.

“There is no difference between us and them,” he says. Louis is sure he has never seen anything as bright as this boy’s eyes. Perhaps, if he had stirred his mind when he had sat down, he could place a name to the face. “We are all humans, are we not?”

It is a brave move, in front of a society such as this one. It is Daniel, entering the lions’ den.

The man with the puffed face laughs, placing his small glass down so that the liquid inside nearly spills onto the pristine cloth below it. He is lucky. The only stain is on the inside of the glass.

It seems that there will be no further conversation on this, until there is. “Very funny. I like that one.” (Louis cannot remember his name, either, or that of anyone else around this table) the man with the ruddy cheeks now has eyes beginning to bulge. It could be an after effect of either the argument, or the drink.

“I did not make a-” Before the sentence can be completed, the woman next to him taps him, ever so furtively, on the inside of the elbow, and the word is never said.

This is the first person, Louis is sure, who not only wants to change the world, but could, perhaps, bring it about.

All the men are told to leave, once the plates are cleared. They are no longer wanted, now that the women can talk freely (or as freely as is allowed). Louis moves slowly, rising from his chair as though his legs resist, so that he may catch the boy from earlier as he rounds the table.

His timing is impeccable. He expected nothing less. As he turns, he falls in to step with the boy; their paces are evenly matched, though Louis’s legs are far shorter.

“Louis,” he says, in the hope that the other boy’s memory is a full of rips and tears as his is.

“Harry.” Is the reply. It is as though there is no further explanation needed. If he were talking to any of the other men, there would be a need for title, for the who’s and where’s. Now, he is nobody, save his name.

The others have come to play poker, or perhaps snooker. Though dinner has only just faded away, the room is choked with grey smoke. These men, with their fat cigars, do not hold Louis’s attention for longer than a second.

“I heard what you said earlier,” Louis’s fingers begin to tap out ceaselessly on the shined table. They have secluded themselves in the corner, away from the gentlemen of esteem. No one shall care, for they are young. “I agree.”

These two words, that he throws out so carelessly, seem to light up Harry (with no other strings); his eyes seek out Louis’s own, and the mouth that so drew Louis in earlier begins to form a smile.

They are careful to keep their voices quiet. It is habit, Louis supposes, though the smoke here must be enough to hide their whispered words. “I shouldn’t have said it. I am bringing shame on to my family.”

Louis does something he does not feel like he has done in too long. He smiles, and it is far easier than he thought it would be.  
This will be lost on Harry, how important this is, but it is not lost on Louis.

Up here, he cannot feel the movements of the engines, but he knows they are there, cutting them through the ocean as though there are stories to be told about today. If there is any story of today, it is how the light is dim here and Harry’s face falls into shadow, the dips below his eyes and nose grey.

“Aren’t we all?”

It is Harry’s words that write their first meeting. It is Louis’s that catalyse their beginning.

For all Harry’s gentle movements, there is nothing calm here.

It’s rough, it’s hands pulling at hemlines, it’s inhuman and yet it is nothing less than human. Harry’s hands have found their way under his shirt, and they cover his skin, pressing down before freeing themselves so they may tug at other clothes.

One moment, he is pushed against the wall, and he has Harry’s mouth on his. The next, they are in another room; Louis is sure this is his room, but they all seem the same in synthetic lighting.

His shirt is half unbuttoned. It will crease, and Louis wishes it would split, that he would hold it aloft as a monument. Harry’s mouth has moved from Louis’s own to kiss along his chest. His touch burns. Louis does not burn because he is on the ocean.

It’s forceful, it’s Louis’s hips rutting in to Harry’s own before he knows he is doing so. The sheets around them tangle. Louis tangles in Harry.

He is sure that the light should not be this bright. It does not matter. Harry is laid open for him like an obscene drawing, and Louis cannot look away. They have not even taken off their clothes, not all. Perhaps that is why it is so warm, under all these layers.

Louis moves quickly when he should not. There- a kiss to Harry’s mouth, tearing his head away from the pillow with its might. Then his hands wander lower, and Harry begins to murmur nonsense. His mouth does not seem to stop talking, even when it takes him so long to speak.

Before him: Harry, his shirt lost somewhere in the room and his jacket long forgotten elsewhere. His hair spills onto the cotton pillowcase, and his lips are rounded where they have fought against Louis’s mouth. His pupils seem larger in the light than they did before.

He takes hold of one of Harry’s hands, follows through with his need to entangle their fingers. He cannot tell where he is and where Harry is not.

Their clothes are ruined. Louis will never be able to explain this fully, when someone comes to collect them tomorrow. Perhaps he shall say nothing.

Harry is flushed beneath him, chest rising and falling faster than Louis can count. They are sticky with Louis’s victory. Nothing has ever seemed as beautiful, or licentious.

There is a rest moment where Louis must fuse his thoughts together. This is enough for him to move off, to allow Harry space, and to draw away entirely.

At his tongue are a thousand different words. He can say none of them. Louis should say something to ease the moment; he opens his mouth to close it a moment later.

“I hope you do not regret it.” It is Harry’s voice. Louis turns in time to catch his mouth form the last word, and to ensure that he does not hear things that have not been said.

It is a salvation, offered by Harry’s mouth and not Louis’s, as it should have been.

“I do not.” Louis says, before leaving to retrieve Harry’s shirt.

* * *

It is night, and the air is sightless warmth. At the rounded window, Louis can see the bright dots now in the sky. The water is black beneath them as they cut through the waves. Louis knows it is not black. He is merely without light to help him.

He has kept the lights switched off; his entire room is lit solely by light from the moon and stars. Everything seems greyed, or silvered, even Louis’s skin. There is no colour, but there is still beauty. It is the dappled light on wave crests. It is the navy sky almost black.

A moment ago, he had debated opening the window. Was it a moment? It could be longer- Louis has lost all sense of time as he watches the ocean foam beneath him. And still the window remains shut. The night air is cooler than he can withstand.

Harry still sleeps in Louis’s sheets. Perhaps it is bad form, to leave him there in a strangers’ bed. But Louis cannot be sure that they are strangers, anyhow. There is something familiar in the softness of his skin, or how his fingers tremble as they map Louis’s body.

The window remains shut, and the night air travels through Louis’s bones.

He is so caught up in the waters that he does not hear footfalls on carpet. “A beautiful view.” It is Harry. It could be no one else; yet Louis is still surprised that he is here, his mouth an inch from Louis’s ear.

“Yes,” he agrees. There is something in the darkness tonight that emboldens him. The night is young, and it is beautiful, and it is his for moulding. “It is.”

It seems blasphemous to break the silence. There are suites either side of him who may, even now, notice their absence. This shall be noted. Louis is untouchable in the night.

“I can go. If you wish.” Harry is unsure, even of himself. He does not sound as if he knows what he is asking. It is foolish of him to suppose so. (Perhaps more foolish yet was the idea that Louis could send him away from his bed).

It is easy to turn his back on the view. When he does, there is little space between the two of them; Louis can watch the rise and fall of Harry’s chest as he breathes.

The distance is crossed with no help from a bridge. “No,” Louis says; Harry is pliant against him, and warm where Louis is cold. “I do not wish that.”

Louis is sure there is much to be said for kissing. Songs shall be sung. Poems shall be inscribed with ink and read by the masses. If he were to have a story, he would chose this. His hands, the fingers lost in the strands of Harry’s hair. Their bodies, having lost their shrouds, moving in motion with the ocean current. He is lost at sea. He is found again. Harry’s lips against his, hot and seeking, pressing and exploring and tender.

This time, they go slowly. Louis wants to remember each moment.

The sheets wrinkle with them, soft ridges building up as they move. Beneath him, Harry is a work of art; red mouth that has lost all its words; dark eyes made darker as the sun has dipped out of sight.

It is the heat, now, that is unbearable. Louis is waiting to implode. When he does, it is victory behind closed lids, and the stars burn behind them.

He finishes Harry with loose hands, his movements fluid even when he is sure they must shake. There is no shaking now. There is no sign of a chill in his bones or his blood.

“Will you stay?” Harry asks, so that Louis will remember the question later. It is not a hard choice. Forgive a man his desperations if he makes them with an honest heart.

If he speaks, Louis is sure he shall stain the moment. So he nods, head falling toward his chest and diving up before there is contact. There is no pause between then; Harry pulls him between the covers, which have bunched under them, and keeps him close. Perhaps Louis should warn he tosses as he sleeps. He does not say anything.

As he closes his eyes, the burning starlight dots his vision. Louis is sure he is as obvious, as dazzling. Harry’s arm is heavy across his chest, but Louis does not think to move it.

* * *

**11 th April**

Clear skies with no trace of cloud.

Breakfast is solemn, as is their custom. The room is airy; tall ceilings and white walls. There is no evidence that Harry is here, not to Louis’s eyes, and they are keen.

It is a family that Louis does not know who must suffer his company. They have dusky skins, a midway colour on a palette of liquid gold and thick, creamy brown. His parents whisper to him about _new money._ There is a son his age, perhaps, and Louis shall risk the slander of associating with such people.

He matches his steps with that of the son as they take the walk for Church. They must go around, so his mother may take the sea air as though it cleanses. The eyes flicker to him once before trailing the ground. His irises are as dark as the wood beneath his feet.

“Louis,” he says. It is all he seems to say, though he has only said it twice. Perhaps he shall see Harry at Church. It is unusual for that many members of a family to sleep in.  
It is bias that makes him say unusual. His father would have said it is vulgar.

There is a long pause before any other words. “Zayn,” is the reply, but the word is left hanging as though more may follow. They do not.

“I have not seen your family before,” Louis sounds as though he is quoting his mother, when she is confronted with someone who purports to know her, but not her them. But she is smooth, and polite. Louis is a blind man fumbling in the dark. “What is it your father does?”

A rap of laughter from Zayn. It is quiet, as it should be on deck (or anywhere). “And I thought you might not buy into that sort of thing.”

“I always aim to disappoint.” Louis says, and the blood in his veins is suddenly infused with shame. Who is he, to think he is anyone better?

Dimly, he hears Harry’s voice: _We are all humans, are we not?_

He wishes he had had the foresight to bring his flask. If he had, he could have flavoured his tea with something stronger than milk, and he would not feel as he does now.

“How is the estate?” It is a strange question for Zayn to ask, if he is so reticent about his own family. At least it is a question Louis can answer with honesty. Each lie must be blackening a part of his soul, and there is no way back. He has burnt his bridges.

It is wintry for an April morning. Louis is sure it is somehow the fault of the sea below them, frothing and seething with the movements of the propellers. “We have given over care to a relative. They shall keep it until we return.” The pace of those in front is a crawl. There is a small child in patched shorts running in front of them. Louis does not remember seeing him a moment ago. “The land of the free, you know.”

“And what does a reputable family such as yours need from America?” Zayn asks many questions. In fact, the only person to ask more questions than him is Louis himself, if the mood possesses him.

They pass a father holding his son against the white painted railings, the small feet struggling for balance. There is a second wherein Louis is certain the child must fall, slide through the gaps, but it never does come.

“Family. It has been a long time since our last visit. I doubt they’ll be pleased to see us. There is always so much to criticize, and they never find enough time to do it all in.”

Zayn’s smile seems to be as if he understands well. Families are similar, Louis has found, if you dig enough; fingers scraping through soil until it beds under your nails.

There is no further talk, since they have reached the room at last. It is full of women with their best hats and men with their unspoiled suits. It is only when he has taken his seat at the pew when he looks to his left.  
Harry is there, at the end. The gap between them is thundering water that shall sweep him away.

It distracts him throughout the service.

There is Harry, to his side. With each exhale, Louis’s mind spills over with thoughts and noise and touch; he is a sinner in the house of the holy.

Surely, if he is damned, this Hell is wondrous.

He does spare a thought for Zayn, as he crosses the aisle to reach Harry. Louis is not altogether lost.  
It is a thought, but a fleeting one. Zayn can converse with his sisters, if he is lonely. There are sights much larger in Louis’s eyes.

“I thought you were all hiding in your rooms,” Louis says. It is impolite to not say hello. He has never cared less for etiquette (he ensures he even thinks that quietly, or he shall earn himself an ad lib lecture on just why propriety is vital to their turning world). “I did not see you at breakfast.”

There is more he wish say, but Harry’s sister is standing before him and this is not a conversation for others to hear. She looks very like him, but in an abstract way that some may compare different portraits of the same figure. Her smile is the same, as are her eyes. Despite these, there is something entirely separate between them.

“We always rise early for breakfast.” An answer to Louis’s unasked question. _Where were you this morning?_ They would note his absence. It is still not unheard of to simply scrawl a note.

He is sure his thoughts are writ all across his face, even those that are not thoughts. They are senses; touches under moonlight when the moon is blocked out; the taste of Harry’s mouth and skin that he has no right to claim; burning white stars seen on black once his eyes have flown shut.

If she notices, she does not comment on it.

“I believe you owe me a tour of the deck,” Harry says swiftly, gesturing towards the outer door. Louis is sure he made no such promise- but then, he said many things last night. It is possible some of them fell through his mind. “You did promise. Well, I beat you at poker, and this was the agreed prize.”

Blue walls that match the sky. Long windows and women with flowered hats. This shall become a _thing_ , Louis is confident; he shall always find himself surprised. It is an offense to Harry, that he expects so little of him. Louis must amend his ways.

“I warned you then, I know no more of the deck than you do. If we become hopelessly lost, it is no more my fault than yours.” Acquiesces Louis, amiably enough for neutrality and with enough warmth for friendship.

“He says this now, but I shall blame him anyway.” Harry stage whispers to his sister. She smiles briefly before moving to return to her mother, and Louis is blown out of the door on a wind.

The afternoon has arrived. They are drunk on a sea breeze and each other. Harry is laughing as they run (he does not know why they are running, only that they are and his blood is pumping), and he is insistent with trying to snatch Louis’s hand. It is a dangerous game he is playing. There may be anyone around the corner.

Louis allows Harry to catch him, and then allows him believe it was his own skill.

They see no one. His suite is bathed in midday sun; the sheets have been straightened once more since he left. He ruins them again with their bodies, torsos pulling until the ends of the sheets come loose from their bindings under the mattress.

He keeps them moving until they are damp with sweat. Strands of hair stick to Harry’s forehead where they have not fallen on to the pillow. Harry’s eyes are as large as the ocean around them. They have cluttered the floor with their clothing.

They stay here too long, Louis is certain. If they do not hurry, they shall be missed.

Harry murmurs his name; his eyes are shut, the lashes spread across his cheeks, and Louis comes before he is aware it is impending (yet it has been rushing towards him, hot with the thought of Harry and having him, since they entered this room).

If you could measure the worth of an hour:

-Louis knows you cannot-

This one is liquid gold.

* * *

They are both late for lunch. It is lucky for them that no one will study them closely enough to see still lingering flushes or creases in hastily discarded clothes.

Someone mentions taking a walk down by the stern. This allows Louis to prove his aptitude for lying; Harry’s sister stirs to ask them how their walk went earlier.

“Brisk,” he says. At least he is whole enough to sew the lie. Harry beholds the tabletop with an intensity Louis had assumed was reserved for other things. “The wind was fierce.”

Another voice joins the parley, their tones covering any feeble excuse on Harry’s part. Such poor lying skills must be bettered; Louis shall teach him, since Harry is such an eager student elsewhere. It is the sick, this man says, who cannot take the wind. They must work on improving Louis’s constitution.

It is a tight smile Louis musters. He does not recognise the man, or his serrated voice, but it is unlike a person of _stature_ to begin a luncheon brawl. After all, this is the mark of a gentleman.

Harry’s tongue is loosened by light wine. “Please do elaborate. I am sure your views on health are veritable pearls of acumen.” This is not how one should watch their step; still, Harry continues to expound, his words stumbling from his mouth in their haste. “Of course, you must be so perspicacious. It is the elders who are the wisest, are they not?”

There is a small pause wherein Harry sips from his glass. No other sound is made; Louis cannot hear his own heartbeat for the silence.

Once the glass is set down, the levee is crushed into dust. Accusations are thrown, excuses are built up half-heartedly, threats are implicit in the air. Two seats to Louis’s left, Harry seeks his eye, and smiles virtuously. It is as if he is a marble God watching on as a war is waged.

It is for a short moment where Harry’s glass is empty; he merely refills it. The woman next to him (Louis is sure it is Harry’s mother), with her glittering stones and ornate pins, strives to cut him off, but her attempt is fruitless. Naturally, this outburst shall tide Harry through until the end of the journey, where he shall remain docile and serene.

There is a comment made on new-fangled ideas on upbringings. It is not the worst made, that Louis has heard, but Harry flares up in capricious fury. “And you, I suppose,” he says. If his words were fast earlier, then that has increased even now. How strange, Louis thinks, to hear him speak so quickly, as if time is slipping from him. “You must be Pallas Athena, fallen from the steps of Olympus, to have such knowledge. There is nothing that can escape your all seeing eye, for you are the wise and the wise is unsurpassed. Forgive me for a thought that you may be but a man.”

The noise increases tenfold. In Louis’s mind, it is a thousand candles lit behind his eyes until the heat is all he knows. If he could escape this, he would silence them all with his shouts and then, he would flee as though he is absconding from a mountain spewing poison and a burning city.

There is no place for burning, here.

After Harry’s last output, they are hurried out of the lunch room with little words and fast steps. His mother is pale, blanched under the highlights of makeup. It must be a shock, for her, to think that someone dare cause such chaos inside her world. Somehow, he is separated from Harry through the wash of moving bodies.

Afterwards, Louis is told that he must pull himself away from Harry; that association with such a person would bring down the ceiling on all their heads.

Once they have left, their words still hanging around him, Louis finds the ceiling with his eyes once again. It is smooth white, not a chip in the work.

“I did not mean to cause a fuss,” Harry tells him. There is no longer a slur in his voice. Part of Louis is sure that it was part of the act, to absolve him of some blame. “What he said to you was-”

“It is the past. The fuss you caused,” which was by design, Louis knows; even if only with hot blood, it was still wanted. “Can’t be rewritten.”

There is a rustle of fabric as Harry moves close. He is impossibly warm, even on a cold sea that would cut through skin and muscle to kill. “You sound wise.” He says, his voice having returned to glacially slow.

“I am not,” Louis replies, and proceeds to prove it so.

* * *

 The darkness is mellow, and the door is shut firmly. It is too dark to make out Harry’s face or the pallor of his skin.  
It is too dark to even try.

Louis is absurdly aware of the sea around them, under them. They are cradled in it, like small children. He whispers Harry’s name, once, twice. He loses count, but he says it regardless.

It is the only word he speaks that night.

* * *

**12 th April**

Louis’s bed is always cold in the morning. It did not used to be. Maybe it is he has grown accustomed to Harry’s extra heat, suffusing the sheets and air. It feels as though he is lying on above the sea, with no walls around him; the wind embraces him like a cold lover.

Such mornings are for pipe dreams.

He finds Harry on the deck. It is well into the morning, and long since breakfast. He makes a melancholy statue: white marble in stark sunlight, leant over the railings with little thought for the writhing surf below. If Louis were an artist, he would paint this scene with soft colours.

“I believe I owe you a tour,” he says, since there was little walking yesterday (and what there was, was simply to avoid). Harry does not turn from where he stares out to sea. The water is endless, and flows into the horizon.

“Are you sure you are qualified? I did not know you also specialised as a guide,” Harry turns, and his eyes seem blue with the ocean they have reflected, “But I will help you. I’m sure we cannot get terribly lost.”

They walk along the starboard side. It is a warmer day than they have had of late; gentle breezes that cool hot skin. Louis is sure that he is imagining the heat. Possibly it comes from Harry, spread out by his blood and body.  
People are everywhere. They line the side of the ship. They crowd along the railings. Louis is not sure how many people he had thought were aboard, but it seems they have amassed themselves here.

He is silent, until he is not. “You know, propellers can slice you to pieces.” Louis says. One child, who had been leaning forward until her very feet seemed that they were no longer touching the bar, pulls back and jumps away. Her dress is checked brown, and the edges tremble as she runs.

“How romantic of you,” Harry’s mouth is struggling to remain aloof. Even if he were to succeed, his eyes would betray him. It is a fault of eyes, to tell the truth. That is why all good liars lie to themselves. “To think of death now.”

“And why should I not?” It is a taunt. Louis knows Harry shall rise to it; his morality will help him on his way. They are suspended together upon an ocean zephyr: Louis is falling. No one else falls, for they are afloat. “Should I change my ways for you?”

Harry, with all his gravity and earnest eyes, replies. “I would not have you change a thing,” he says, “Yet man seeks change as though it is for breathing. It is how we come to love.”

If Louis were a brave man, or even a gambling one, he would have taken his hand. But it is not money he plays with, and it is not fire; he holds something else entirely.

These transient hours are marked by languorous kisses and touches softer than bird feathers. It is not the bedroom that Louis hides them in; they sit beneath the window.

Sunlight falls on Harry in such a way that he is inhuman.  
He has never seemed more so.

Even their touches are lazy; gentle tugs on Harry’s hair, fingers scraping delicately down his bare sides. Louis is sure the carpet must burn, but it does not seem to. He is tethered to this moment.

He has left the salve in the other room. It is dangerously unselfish for him to leave, so they do without.  
It is open mouths on skin and daring hands. Harry’s fingers are long and impudent; they slip past Louis’s waist, trail across his navel. His fingers cage around Louis’s cock, sliding upwards.

It is the clean air that has awoken this, perhaps. Harry is seeking and finding with newfound courage. His mouth is apt even without words; his tongue is clever even when not speaking.

Louis is no better. His skin seems golden with light; he catches sight of their hands, pulled high above Harry’s head as Louis rubs their hips.

It feels an endless age. It is not half that long.

Sometimes, Louis is certain that Harry would oblige him in whatever he asked. If the fancy took Louis to mark him with his victory, to smear him and to claim, then Harry would allow it with a slow smile.

So when Harry asks - his hair mussed where it has chafed against the pile of the carpet- Louis is he may come with him, Louis consents.

* * *

It is as if the world has receded.

They are here, and they are divided; divided from everything but each other. For now, they have the hours between meals where they must parade. It is theirs for moulding.

The ocean seems infinite. It is beyond Louis’s mind, and yet he knows it does end. Forever, he is sure, is an imprecise notion.

Harry has a bottle of red wine in his hand. It must have been put there in the alacrity of unpacking; Louis does not remember it, but he is glad.

See, how the bottle fits to Harry’s lips. It is too obvious to be a mistake.

In his corner, Louis motions for Harry to come to him. His walk is blithe, and he twirls twice to imaginary music. Vainly Louis listens for the strains and melodies, but they are not for his ears. It is in the smooth drink, and how Harry’s arms are loose and they circle his head. Louis is the only audience for an impromptu ballet.

When Harry has crouched down, his mouth seeks Louis’s with all the desire of inebriation. It makes him a warrior, stealing Louis’s lips and resting his hand at the back of his neck. They stay there for too long: Harry, with the bottle in his hand; and Louis, with his own hands under the fine cloth of Harry’s shirt. It is late afternoon, and the air is ridden with dust motes that creep through the cracks.

They are valiant, and breathe through their noses so to avoid parting, but it is unavoidable. “Did you have a reason for making me talk this walk?” The question is softly murmured against Louis’s neck. Harry has joined him sitting on the floor: his legs have laid themselves over Louis’s own.

It is ridiculous that he has misplaced the reason. It is anything but.

“I would have, if you did not make me forget myself.” The sentence was supposed to be a rebuke. Lightly, Harry’s spare hand wanders to Louis’s own; he is a child, and his middle and index fingers form legs so that they may walk. They come to the end of their journey so that Harry can take Louis’s hand and pull it towards his lips.

“Is that what I do? Am I now a master of hypnotism?” Harry’s eyes are wide, and he has a habit where he speaks into Louis’s skin.

Louis could scribe a novel of this moment. He fears it would not make an interesting reading for anyone but him. What man would ever choose to hear of pleasure?

Is this how it feels, Louis wonders, to have found happiness? He had thought it existed in things far more existential; great heroes, and their rewards. He shall not rebirth the world. He shall create one here.

“There is nothing you do that does not make me feel a different man,” he says. It is not a lie.

His hand is lowered into Harry’s lap. It is unlikely he shall finish the book he is reading.  
Was it a paragraph he had wanted to read to him? It is unimportant.

Harry is still silent, but his eyes are far away. He is choosing these words with diligence. “I am a man,” he says, and his mouth makes the words seem filth. “Who is audacious enough that he risks to dally with the Gods. You know what they say of such people.”

There is no reply Louis can form that Harry would accept from him. It is a part of him that cannot be changed. “You think me far more than I am.”

As Harry shakes his head, the yellowed sunlight catches it so that his hair is golden. “I think of you as you are. You are a statue of marble with flowers at his feet. You are a scholar with whom none can contend. And you look at me now, and you do not believe me, but you are Poseidon, sprung forth from the ocean depths with his trident held tight. Perhaps you are a leader of an army with purple fabric and golden laurels. You will be the face of many literary heroes, the lover in every poem. I imagine you as the face that would command-”

It is a sermon burst from nowhere.

He must halt it, if only to spare himself some modesty. “If I were all that, it would have ended me.” Louis says steadily, and talks over Harry when he speaks up to argue. “No man is all that and survives.”

Harry mutters as he takes a swallow of wine, but it is the end. A small bead of red travels down the bottom.

“I do not think you know,” Louis says when they have not said anything for too long, “How wondrous you seem in the sunlight.”

They finish the bottle between them, and Louis begins to strip him of his clothing.

* * *

**13 th April**

“Would you believe,” Harry begins. It is dawn, and he is curled naked on Louis’s sofa. Somehow he has found a sheaf of papers, but Louis does not know where they have come from. “That I am an artist?”

“No,” Is Louis’s answer, but he moves to see the drawing anyway. It has occupied Harry since dinner; the strains of string music lulled Louis to lethargy whilst Harry pressed lines into thick paper. “What is it you have been drawing?”

It is only until Louis is half way across the room that Harry answers. “My muse, of course. Who else am I to draw?”

Maybe, if Louis were kind, he may say it were a passable drawing. He is not such a man. “I hope you apologise to them. High society suits you better, I believe.”

“Then I am sorry on both counts,” Harry says, but he reaches a hand to clasp at the back of Louis’s neck. “I have never pretended to be some worth at art.”

“I have never pretended to be a good muse.”

All other conversation is lost as Harry begins to peel away the clothing Louis had troubled to put on.

* * *

They are alone below the sky. There is Harry: his eyes are slow with cheap absinthe that was all Louis dared take. His waistcoat is evergreen, and Harry is not.

“Do not the stars seem different, tonight?” Asks the romantic. Louis catches the slurs in Harry’s voice; how his eyelashes flutter as they behold the expanse above them.

Louis considers. “They are the same stars.” He decides, after careful thought. Even now, he is careful. But there seems something foreign, Harry is right: they seem closer, brighter. A few steps closer and they shall all burn.

He wishes he had brought a blanket. The night is cool on his skin, and he is human.

“The stars have changed.” Harry says with decisive clarity. He raises his arm, the one holding the half drunk bottle, and shouts to the heavens. “I bow to your majesty. There is nothing comparable to your majesty, great lights. I stand below you as a mortal daring to look upon a God-”

This is a tirade. Louis should stop it, but gently. There is no use in castigation when there has been this much alcohol. “I do believe even the officers may hear you, if you shout a little louder,” he murmurs. His mouth is close to Harry’s ear, and his skin is on fire. “So I would have you lower your volume.”

Harry laughs. The noise builds from low down, and Harry’s mouth stretches to impossible an impossible distance, wider than the ocean they are crossing. “Are you afraid of what they may think? Sitting here with a drunkard?”

It is not beyond even Louis’s inebriation to recognise a mockery. His suit -it is his second best- is tight across his shoulders, and he longs to fling it beneath him. The waves may take it, or perhaps the propellers below them.

“I do not see a drunkard,” Louis is talking to relieve Harry’s mind. It could be his own that finds comfort. “I see only you.”

It is a while before Harry, seemingly now sober, replies. “I hope you shall see me for a long time, then.”

They may escape the officers, but they cannot avoid all company. To Louis, time runs in stops and stars; there is a moment where they are alone, and then they are not.

He sits on the bench next to them. Set off by the moonlight, his hair glows almost indecently, an exuberant shout in the nighttime. It is certain he is drunk, as much as Harry if not more so, for he begins an impromptu ramble with a disinclined audience.

“I do not know much of America,” His accent slides with liquid toxicant, but Louis can listen below that. He is far too used to uncovering words beneath drink. “But ‘s the land of the free. It seems a good idea, does it not? But let me tell you, there is no freedom but where I’m from. An Irishman is always an Irishman, see. So I said I would go, but only for a while. We have some family there. The land of the free will have nothing on us. Greener than anything, she is.”

Such rambles have never been presented to Louis. There has been a time when Harry had whispered nonsense into his ear, but that is sprung up in the minutes after furious passion.

“I have never travelled to Ireland,” says he cautiously. This may be a madman, possibly, come to find them when they are defenceless. “It seems a beautiful place.”

It is Harry who replies, once more Louis’s focus. “There is not enough wine,” he tells Louis solemnly, his eyes widened. “Why did we not take wine?”

Louis is sure that he may give no reasonable answer, so it is the stranger who answers. “Niall,” he says to nobody, and tilts the head of his bottle toward them. It has no link to Harry’s question. Such are the pathways of the intoxicated.

“Louis, and Harry.” It is strange, to have to answer for Harry. It almost sounds as though they have come only as a pair; they are purely a part of the other.  
That is not Louis. He has always been whole. If he is to love -and it is often spoken of- then he shall simply expand so they may fit themselves with him.

A beat of no words and slow breathing. “Which is which?” Asks the drunk man (his name was Niall, Louis thinks, but it is terribly easy for things to fall from his head when he is this way).

“Harry would be me,” intrudes Harry hastily. He is tranquil next to Louis; gentle winds do not raze him as they do Louis. His shirt is ridged with bumps where it is in need of ironing and pressing. There have been too many nights in Louis’s room. “Are you sure you are well?”

A moment of steady breathing. “Of course I am well,” Niall says serenely, “’s only drink, and I am Irish.”

“This ship was made in Belfast, was it not?” Louis is scrabbling for words. There is nothing to say. It is not often Louis is at a loss for words; he is used to speaking quickly, orating. “She is beautiful.”

The bottle in Niall’s hand is lifted towards the sky, and it wobbles. “Irish hands, you see!” Louis is lost with the words. He is sure that none of this makes sense, and yet it is only logical.

Red flushes: on Harry’s cheeks, and on Niall’s. He cannot see his own. Black skies and white stars.

“Have you come alone?” He asks. His voice is clipped compared to the freedom the others have. Liberation through alcohol.  
It is a question that has already been answered.

Niall shakes his head once, twice. His eyes are unfocused and his pupils are large, as large as the moon above them. “M’family are here. Me brother, and his wife. Me parents. Got a room in third class, the lot of us. I ‘ave the lower bunk, since Greg is sure a rat’ll come an’ nip him in the night.”

Most of the speech is lost in translation. Even Louis’s ears cannot hear beneath the slurs and the accent; but Niall uses his hands, flinging them about him like he is trapped in a hurricane.

The waves rise and fall beneath them.

Abruptly, Harry clambers from his seat (using Louis’s knee to rest his weight) before stumbling to the railings. He stares below, and Louis is sure he is about to vomit; it does not happen.

“Think how cold it must be.” He says. It is unprompted, and Louis does not know what to say. There is no comfort to give, if it should be given. “You would freeze over in minutes.”

Harry’s voice dies down to a murmur. They are a hymn to the ocean, his words; a hymn in speech. From here, Louis sees the way his fingers grip the railings. He cannot fall, since he is on this side of the bar.

“Is he a’right?” Niall asks in a stage whisper. Perhaps it was not intended a stage whisper. He is, after all, a drunk man. “He might need t’see a doctor.”

This nettles Louis, needling through his skin. He cannot quite work out why. There is no theorem for this, no fallback equation. He is blindfolded. “I am sure he is well. It is you who are far drunker.”

Niall laughs when he should not, throwing his head back to see the stars. His cheeks were red before; now he seems as though there is rouge pasted over his cheeks. “Don’t pity the drunkard,” says the man with wine for blood, “Pity the fool.”

It will be later that Louis will try to puzzle this out. He has read his books, and studied the thoughts of great men, but he is beaten by the words of alcohol. (He tells himself they mean nothing, since they are drunk words and drunk words are nonsense. Still they haunt him).

“Are they not the same?” Louis asks warily. He thinks of the men with their small sherries, and then their larger glasses in the safety of their suites. They seem drunk fools, to him.

There is a while until Louis has an answer, since Niall laughs on. It must keep him warm, since his body racks with it. “Yes,” he says at last, “and no.”

This is neither answer nor question.

Louis is spared making a reply by Harry’s return. His hands shake, but this could be the work of cold or drink. His footsteps are heavy on the wooden boards, but he is quiet.

No one says anything of much value. Twice, Harry attempts to wrestle Louis’s hand from his lap, but Louis is wise and tired, so he keeps them where they are.

“Do you know the worst thing?” Niall asks. Louis is sure it is well into the morning. He shall see in the sunrise with Harry trying to burrow into his side.

“No,” Louis replies. “I do not.”

The fingers of Niall’s free hand rake through his hair until it is standing tall. “M’brother said that he was sure a rat’d come and get ‘im in the night, and I laughed. I fucking laughed in his face, see, because he’s such an idiot. They wouldn’t be any rats on _this_ boat, I said, she’s the Titanic! So last night, I woke up, and there it was. A f’ckin rat sitting on me chest. Must’ve been a’long as my hand. So I went to whack it off, and it took a nip at me finger like I’m a block o’ cheese. I got it off, mind you, but Jesus, it hurt like nothing. A fucking rat, right on me. Y’just can _not_ make this up.”

Both Harry and Niall seem to have been dwelling far too long in the land of the drunk. Only half those words filtered through to Louis- not enough for him to understand, but enough for the gist to reach him. He has been awake too long, he is sure.

Still the sky stays stygian. They must have been here hours, and Louis had left his watch in his room. How thoughtless of him to have removed it.

Niall is even now chuckling to himself, shaking his head and once, he slapped his knee. Louis watches him as though he is an opera, or a play; he has never seen someone with so much movement. His veins must be imbued with vigour.

It is a long while before the sun rises. Louis almost misses it; his body is heavy with dozing and his eyelids are heavier yet. He rouses Harry gently, shaking his side.

He risks leaning close to speak softly into his ear. His mouth brushes him once; it awakens him far quicker than the words themselves. “It is sunrise, Harry. You wanted to see this.”

The sky above them is a palette of warm colours: orange and pink blending with yellow and purple. Even the sun is liquid red, rising slowly. It seems as if it appears from the sea to hail them, and they shall sail straight into it.  
If they were to, Louis is sure they would perish. You cannot live inside a sun.

“I will not leave here without you,” Harry tells him. The words are quiet, and they seem loud. It is as if Harry has shouted them, when he has whispered. “Even if I must follow you.”

Louis breathes in. The air is salty, and it is cold even inside him. “I would not have you follow me. It is far more appropriate for you to be at my side.”

The sunset is glorious.

* * *

**14 th April**

The morning is slow. Louis sleeps until breakfast, and Harry is gone. He is always gone in the mornings.

White tablecloths, and pastel dresses. Even the breakfast room seems washed out, cleansed of colour. If Louis were able, he would paint it red and vibrant. Red, like the blood in his veins. It is the colour of life.

Harry is not on his table today. They have been separate since Harry’s argument that lunch. It has had its ripples, those small sentences. They are apes pretending at civilisation. None of this shall mean anything.

It is a morning for philosophy. His body aches, and his mind tries desperately to slumber. Twice, his eyes fall as though they shall never open again, but one of his sisters shall nudge him. He is thankful for them, and then he is guilty.

“You seem weary, this morning,” Lottie says charily. Her hair has been tied up elaborately; she is quite the young lady. It has been not four days, and Louis is sure he has missed her grow up. “Did you not sleep well?”

Louis had slept well, what little of it there was.

“I could not rest. Those nights do happen.” He tells her gently, or as gently as he can. She does not seem dissatisfied with this answer, but the subject does not seem to have been put to an end. There are diamonds around her neck. Louis knows she has only the one necklace, and it is for dinner only.

He nods towards it, and lowers his voice. It is long since he has played the conspirator. “Are you sure you should be wearing those?” He asks, and grins.

Lottie, red cheeked and culpable, answers. “But aren’t they lovely? I do not think I ever want to take them off.”

Louis’s fingers refrain from reaching to untie them from around her. “There are far more important things than diamonds. You shall find out, I hope.”

His eyes seek out Harry across the room. The walls are whitewashed and hung with gilded frames; the glasses are crystal. Harry has his back to him, but his hair is almost feral. He is surprised that no one has made an effort to pat it down. Perhaps they have.

In the corner of the room, Harry’s smile is wide as a mile as he talks. He is speaking to his sister, Louis thinks. He cannot remember her clearly, but she bore resemblance to him with her eyes and mouth.

At his side, Lottie is replying. “You have become an old man. Did you not say you were to be a child forever?”

It is true. Louis had said that, and then he had elaborated until he was Pan.  It is an inescapable part of childhood; to yearn for the future and to yearn for the past. In his stories, he had become immortal, and all the while his body grew and so did his mind.

He wonders how much younger Harry is, to him. It is strange that Louis has never asked his age, or even his birthdate. They could be strangers, now. Behold the men who claim each other, and know so little.

“I did indeed,” he says. His words are as slow as the march of time. “And then, dear sister, I was unfortunate enough to grow up.”

His eyes flick from Lottie, to Harry. Her brow is furrowed as she thinks this over, and Louis is certain he has confused her completely. In his haste to appear wise, he has become the archetypal adult; he claims no child can ever be his equal, simply because they are.

However, she does form a reply, and it is a good one: “Is not growing up simply a change?” She asks, and that word has reappeared. It may possibly be haunting him, to come back when he least expects it.

From the depths of his mind: _Yet man seeks change as though it is for breathing. It is how we come to love._

They are changing. Even as he looks on, his sister is growing. She is much more than he ever was, at her age.

“You shall be a fine lady,” Louis tells her solemnly.  “And you shall be wiser than all the men.”

They are more alike than Louis had ever thought. Where others would bow their head and decline the praise, Lottie straightens herself and nods.

Her cheeks are no longer red. The stones around her neck do not seem to weight her down; Louis knows they are heavy. He remembers when she had unwrapped them, as a Christmas gift: she had placed them reverently into his hands, and commanded that he fasten them around her. They had been too large, but she has grown into them.

“Of course I shall,” she tells him. Her voice is strong, like it was made to hold the ears of a man. “And I shall tell them how my brother had predicted this very greatness. You shall be hailed as an oracle.”

Louis tugs on one of her ringlets, and proclaims his love.

The future he sees then is far different to the one approaching.

* * *

It is as if they are complete strangers again.

He has crossed the room to seek Harry; a woman takes him by the arm to show him around. Perhaps she mistook his determination for loss. He was not lost, but now he is.

There are many people that he already knows. She has such a firm grip on him. Pearls are fastened at her throat, and she asks him how his father is, is he well? Louis responds in the affirmative, and tries to place her.  
She is his mother’s friend. He has not seen her since the first night.

Louis learns, in trickles, that his mother is worried that he is distancing himself. His family do not see him anymore, she says, and tightens her fingers for a moment. Her nails are sharp as ice, and ice is as sharp as her voice.

Between the parties of _how do you do_ and hollow expounding, she paints him a picture.

“It is not right to draw away from your family,” says she. Her hat is wonderfully bedecked with flowers. “No matter who you are talking with. I am sure you will realise that.”

Louis is swept up in the sea. He is not sure what they know, only that they do.

He is spun and twisted until they come to a stop again; he is face to face with Harry, and the motion subsides. The hold on his arm recedes until it means naught. It all means naught, save this.

They are not alone, and yet they are. Then he is being introduced like they are any common men who have met each other before luncheon, and they are fresh.

It is as though Louis had forgotten, in his haste and fervour, how beautiful Harry is. He remembers it now; it stuns him.

There has never been something as green as his irises, Louis is sure. His lips are the first to look this way, and Louis is the only one to have kissed them. They are the only lovers to have loved. (It is how every lover thinks).

“Harry Styles,” Harry says when he must, and Louis takes his hand. Their fingers close around each other’s for a brief second, and then they part. “And you are?” He says, when Louis makes no reply.

It is Harry’s fault, Louis decides. He is forgetting himself and where he is. “Louis Tomlinson.” He replies steadily. If he seems sure of himself, then the others may forget his errors. It is a hope. It is wishful thinking. Louis is fond of wishful thinking: without it, life is much more dreary.

There is a chandelier above them. Somehow, it reminds Louis of the drunk from last night, and his bunk with the rat.

“Where will you go, once we have arrived?” Asks Harry. His shirt is neat; it is one that has not been picked up from Louis’s carpet. “America is quite large, you know.”

Harry seeks to clarify that Louis is sure. He will not ask directly, even if they were alone; yet Louis is not one to go back on his word, and not when he wants it.  
The suit is one he recognises, with red buttons. Those buttons may be why he remembers it. He had pulled it off feverishly, his legs around Harry’s waist and one hand lost in his hair.

His mother and sister are talking. It almost gives them solitude.

“I may just go where the wind takes me.” Louis says. It is worth each word.

Then he is hurried on without due ceremony, and without having said a word to the women. There is not much he could have said, anyway. All they share in common is Harry.

Later, he finds him on the staircase.

Harry is separate from his family, and it is simple for Louis to reach him. The steps are never ending, and the marble is shined. “I hope you do not have anywhere to be.” His words are soft enough for no one to hear them, if they were to listen in. There is a man in front of them with a tall hat that is close to tipping from his head.

“I do not think I will be missed, if you were to take me,” Harry is resplendent: his hands seem to be warring with themselves, reaching forward and then surging back. “And I am sure I can spare the time.”

Fierce and careless, Louis answers. “That is good,” says the swain, “For I am selfish.”

They have hours before they will be needed again, and they are spent as wisely as foolish men can spend them. Neither of them are cautious; their hands hold each other’s before they are hidden from sight. Even their lips meet, when Louis has him pressed into a wall.

Footsteps. They round the corner with it’s sharp white walls and run.  
He is suffused with this game they are playing.

Something has loosened his limbs today. His fingers fumble with the door handle, and again with Harry’s coat. Why do they slip? He is too eager, his mouth wandering a path down Harry’s jaw to kiss at his throat. He is too brave, and he leaves a mark. A claim. He is a Shrike. Shrikes are territorial. This is his territory.

Perhaps he is a victor, and this is his prize. There is nothing that can compare.

They have not been this potent since the first; the touches Harry gives, pressing his fingers down Louis’s sides, making him giddy with it. If Harry is providential, those fingerprints will bruise violet and scarlet.

Harry’s mouth is wicked. Louis is a sinner and Harry is temptation. Eden falls around them and Louis is on fire, a fire on the ocean that should not be.

The sheets stick to Harry’s back, and they are clasped in his hands. Even his voice is ruinous, and impetuous. Louis would silence him, but he does not care to.

There are hands spread on his back, and then they move to his thighs.

Louis thinks about whether he should pull out, and mark Harry again. If he were to, and to put Harry’s mouth to some other use, he is sure Harry would allow it; let Louis spill over his mouth and chin.

It is too late for that. Harry is the one who marks; he paints both their bodies.

His eyes are closed. Softly (like none of this was), Louis presses a kiss to both. There is no vocal reply, but Harry’s body shudders with it, and it exhorts Louis.

For a while, they do not move. Louis is laissez-faire about cleaning himself; it is Harry who that falls on. Harry, who has become buried under Louis and his weight.

When Harry speaks, his lips move against Louis’s cheek. If Louis were not so tired, he would swell, and have had him again. “I think I am quite in love with you,” he says.

If Louis were as shrewd as he claims himself to be, he would deny it. They have known each other only four days; and it is not even that. “And I, you.” Louis replies. He is not so wasted that he does not know what he says.

Harry tells him that they must remember this moment, for fear that it does not come again. Louis does, and it doesn’t.

* * *

A respite between hours.

On the sofa, Harry is spread out, only his trousers on and a book held in his hands. He studies it with an ardour he has not shown for anything other than lovemaking. It is entrancing.  
When Harry searches to meet his eye, Louis looks away; it is one thing for him to be caught, and yet another for him to be seen at it.

If he notices (for Louis is sure he is not fast enough), he does not mention it. Instead, Harry clears his throat and inclines the book so that Louis must focus on that, and not the skin Harry is baring. “This is a curious book,” Harry says slowly -even slower than usual- , “Where did you find it?”

The room is crossed so that Louis may sit by Harry’s feet. It is indecent, how much space he can take up. “I couldn’t say. I have quite a collection of books, if you hadn’t noticed. What is it, anyway?”

He is bold: he places his hand on Harry’s ankle, if only for his own want, and to watch how Harry must swallow afterwards. It is strange how Louis is no longer weary.

The cover is turned so that Harry may read it out to him. Louis would have him read a great many things to him; he is sure even the invectives of the papers would become fascinating in his voice. “It is a collection of poems,” Harry responds, “By Oscar Wilde.”

How apt, Louis is sure.

It is revealed that Harry does not know of the man. Louis had expected nothing less, since Harry seems to dwell somewhere other than the rest of the world. There is no use castigating him, even if Louis were to try.

Harry moves so that his legs are bent, and that Louis may lean up against them. The window allows in the sunlight, and they sit in it’s path.

Momentarily, Louis allows them to simply breathe, and then he brings them back. “Read me one,” he says, so that there may be no silence, and he may allow Harry’s voice to immerse him like the daylight does. Harry does not affirm, but he flicks the pages: Louis wonders which one has caught his fancy that he may return to it.

Again, he clears his throat. The great speech-maker at his podium once more.

Then: “Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay,”

Harry’s voice holds Louis is place like chains, but not half as binding. He dare not turn his head. The only movement is the rising of his chest. In the doorway of his bedroom, he beholds the rest of Harry’s attire that he had so quickly torn from his body. They are so often reckless, that Louis is intoxicated with it. Harry’s voice is more heady than any of the opium-halls of London.

Does this poem have no end? Louis is not sure. He cannot remember if he has read it before, for it is new in Harry’s voice. “Yet I am not sorry I loved you- ah, what else had a boy to do? For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue. Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and once the storm of youth is past, without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last,”

Still it continues. There is naught but heartbreak.  
Surely, if he knows they are all to expire, it shall hurt less?

The poetry has made him philosophical. A dangerous mood to have struck him, as perilous as a tsunami. If he is not sure-footed, he shall slip and begin to harangue on the fickleness of life, as every other man before him who has bemoaned his lot. His own is far greater than others.

The last line comes before Louis is aware they have washed to shore. “I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better than the poet’s crown of bays.”

He must speak. It is what he does, but he is always at a loss.

“Good God,” he says at last, “Could you not have found something more cheerful?” He turns so that he may lie between Harry’s legs, and face him. Harry’s chest is warm, and Louis is not.

Harry laughs, the sound building in his stomach so that Louis can feel the rumble. “Would you not have told me, then, to have found something else?”

It takes a moment for Louis to ponder this. Is he so pertinacious? It seems he is, and as changeable as the winds. “I still enjoyed it,” he mutters, and it is muttered into the side of Harry’s neck. He does not want to leave this sofa. They shall carry him off the boat, and they shall stay here even then.

“I imagine you enjoy a great many things and pretend you do not.” Harry rejoins. His lips are still puffed where they have been kissed by Louis’s own. It is enough, coupled with the poem, for him to need him again.

He bends to kiss him, but pulls back before. It means so that the words are spoken near into Harry’s mouth. “You must think me a cowardly man, if that is so.”

Neither move for Harry’s reply. They shall be caught here immobile for the rest of the world to see.

“I think you are quite the opposite,” Harry tells him resolutely. “And I am thankful that I may have you.”

This time is far different to the one before. Louis touches with gentle fire, and love is made instead of a fuck. He keeps them going until Harry is panting beneath him, with legs too weak to hold himself and arms slung around Louis’s neck.

He begs, softly, so Louis allows it.

* * *

They do not walk to dinner together. Harry leaves first, so he may arrive early, and Louis stares out to sea. For the first time, he wonders how deep it is, were he to fall.

He is at his post for so long he very nearly forgets to leave. It would warrant a shame too terrible for his family to bear.

It is lonely, to walk down these steps alone.

His place is left for him at the table, and no one comments on his lateness. They are all in discussion over the latest scandal that Louis cares not for. Another man has a mistress, and it shall not become history, unless the books were to be written by the screeches of these estimable people.

Someone asks his opinion. He must confess to not listening, and it merits a short burst of mirth. It is false.

There is his mother at his side, and a girl on his other. Louis does not know her.

When the table debate has faded, they are introduced with the formality that is inherent with them all. His mother, her wrists laden with heavy jewelled bracelets, seems keen for them to talk.

It is only seconds after they have been familiarized, but Louis has forgotten her name. It is one of his faults, much as Harry is one of his vices. There is no excuse for him, save that his mind is made of worn out fabric and nothing holds for long.  
The band is playing something melancholy. It is reflective of Louis now.

Neither of them can find something to say. Perhaps it is his place, as the gentleman. He does not care to start a conversation, even when it is all he does.

“Is this your first time leaving for America?” She says, when it is clear as night that Louis will not. “I have not travelled from England before.”

He ponders the question. It gives him pause to search for something non committal that does not require them to talk much further. He has seen his mother make plans before. It is evident now, in the opportune arrangement of their seats. Further down, a man knocks over his glass and the cloth stains burgundy.

“I have not been before. But I have once been to France.”

Her eyes widen as though this is something miraculous. Lottie would begrudge her the green stone in the pendant in the hollow of her neck. “Do not tell,” She mock-whispers, “But I would much rather see France than America.”

Perhaps Louis has been hasty. He always makes too quick a judgement.

“Then you must see Paris. It is a triumph.” He replies, and she is beguiled by the idea. Louis begins to describe to her its great stone buildings and its pavements shiny with rainwater. He speaks of the river Seine and how it rushed below him, and then of the crumbling pastries that sold in every street.

Tonight, Harry is on his table. He is on the opposite side, and two seats away from Louis. His eyes are focused on Louis as he waxes about another place.

She asks him some more about France; he tells her that he has never ventured outside of the city except once. His family had stayed in their hotel, for the heat was great and the girls were young. He had found his way out of the city boundaries and eaten at a small cafe in a village on the outskirts.

“The sun was absurd,” he tells her intently. “I do not think it has ever burned as hot as it did that day. I looked a lobster with my red skin.”

She seems on the verge of a reply when Harry breaks in. It is lucky for them that no one else is listening, for Louis sees in his voice, the Shrike. He is watching over what is his. It incenses Louis; he has been given this task, and Harry shall not stop him now that Louis has begun.

“Then perhaps you should go see it, should you not?” Harry asks, but it is not a gracious question.

Louis holds his gaze until Harry looks away and down at the table. Everyone’s plate is empty, but no one has moved.

“I am sure you will see it, one day. At least you must for me. In fact, I will not rest until you have been there.” It is an elaboration on his part, but Harry’s cheeks are stung with faint pink. It is a cruel game for Louis to play, but he is long past redemption.

Beside him, the girl has recovered from Harry’s attack. It must have been gratuitous, to her. “Do not heed my wants that seriously, I am sure I am unworthy. But I think I shall travel, one day.”

They spend the rest of the time discussing the world, and where they would go if they had the freedom. It is intriguing: others may go, but cannot afford to; they could, if only it were allowed.

When the men have stood to leave, she asks if he may accompany her on a tour of the deck. Louis deliberates, for a moment; he enjoys her company as well as any other, and more than some.

Behind him, Harry hovers before turning and leaving the room.

Louis makes his apologies, feeble though they are, and follows him.

They meet on the stairs; Harry, since he has stopped, and Louis, since he has not. Louis is sure he is in danger of being crushed by the affluence of this room. He is constantly surprised that this can float, even when he knows the mechanisms; there is simply so much heavy marble that he is sure they shall be plunged down.

His footsteps echo, and there is no one else to hear them. “Imagine meeting you here,” Louis says, when he has come to a halt. They are half way up exactly. It is probably by design.

“I hope you do not begrudge me my jealousy.” Harry replies. He pulls apart the words in his mouth so that they are much _more_. “But it will not leave me.”

Each corner of the room, and every in between, is scoured with Louis’s eye before he moves so that there is no space between their bodies. “I would not have it leave you.” He says, so that he is reminded of Harry’s words. _I would not have you change a thing._

It is Harry who leans forward. There is something incomparable about kissing someone you have kissed often; their lips are not exploring, for they have conquered. They do not scrabble, or falter. Harry’s mouth is open to him, and Louis’s tongue is bold and made powerful with wine and lust. They play at being the great men of history at a Symposium.

When it is late night, and Harry is lost to the dark, he rouses Louis with his voice. “I hope,” he says, “That someone may love as we do.”

It is such a naive thought. Louis welcomes it with an eager embrace. “Are we so different from them?” He asks. They are both exhausted, and neither of them sleep when they should. “We are only men.”

“Ah, you see,” Harry tells him with all the confidence of a romantic, “That is why we are so different. Men are fools, you see.”

Louis considers this as the night washes them with it’s moonlight.  “What is so wondrous about a fool, then?” The sheets are warm, and Harry is warmer yet.

“They feel too deeply,” Harry replies, moving so that his arms may lie across Louis’s chest. Louis does not want to think over the implications of that statement.

Instead, he utters one of the first questions Harry had asked him, and he had not expected to remember it. “Will you stay?” He asks.

Harry’s mouth is pressed against Louis’s neck, and it is as though he is ablaze. “I am afraid I could not leave.”

* * *

**15 th April**

The sleep Louis has is restless and sticky under the sheets. Were his covers always so heavy? They are the same covers, but it is irrefutable that they are somehow different. He cannot rest, and dawn is breaking over his room.

It lights Harry’s face so that there are no shadows.

He does not want to move; perhaps he cannot, since Harry’s arm is heavy and unwieldy this early morn. Each second passes as an hour. Across from him: they have left the door ajar so that there is a draught. There should not be one, since the window is not open. Did they open the window? Louis cannot be sure. It is the fault of his memory, and how he let it slack in early years.

Half of Harry’s face is lost to the pillow. Louis make believes the rest, and thinks of him whole.  
It is to be noted that Harry is already whole.

Is this the ancient curse of man? Over his body, the sheet clings when it should only drape; his blood burns with a energy born of a troubled sleep. He turns, and then again. Harry’s mouth is pressed against the back of his neck. His breath is steady with sleep. Louis wishes he were with him.

Brushes of vivid colour fade into blue. Louis can see them, for he has not drawn the curtains. How sloppy they were, yesterday. Two boys lost at sea.

His turning eventually rouses Harry; there is a change in his breathing, and his arms tighten before they release. It is his instinct, perhaps, to ensure Louis is there. “Why don’t you sleep?” he asks, and his voice is rough. It is a puissant drug. Later, Louis will have him read once more. Tomorrow, maybe, and Louis shall find himself awash in Harry.

If he were a gentleman, he would turn to answer. “I could not. Yet something else that has escaped me.” Louis does not turn, for he is soberly exhausted. Each muscle seems pulled until he cannot move it. How strange, to be so awake when he is in such a state. He is a shame to himself. More than that, he is a waste of the wine they had drunk last night.

“I have not escaped you,” Harry replies, “So you have not yet lost all.” His mouth places feather kisses up Louis’s neck, and into his hair. “It is probable that you shall never be rid of me, ever.”

Louis musters a long sigh that is an effort for his lungs. He is surprised all the air is not sapped from the room. “A pity it is. You follow me as the most loyal of lapdogs would. I would have you cast off, but I fear you would not survive without me.” They must have a few hours yet, and they are slow as honey. “Do not fear. I shall keep you with me.”

“Your kindness is boundless. How ever did I exist without your kind hand to guide me?” Harry asks, but it is in jest, and his smile is against the bareness of Louis’s shoulder. They are so slow this morning. Surely someone shall come and find them, for they are suspending their movements.

His answer is short, but it is not a rebuke. “As I did,” he tells him, and his hand is searching for Harry’s so that they may tie together. “In a most lonely way.”

It is highly reprehensible, how he is speaking now. These words are reserved for poets and heartbroken lovers. He is neither: yet he could rhyme onwards of the way that Harry’s voice quickens his heart. It would roll with the commanding tempo of the ocean waves. A sonnet, for his beloved, and drawn in wet sand.

There is a laugh, from Harry. Of course, he is joking. When does he not?

A pause. “Why could you not sleep?” Asks Harry, when the stretch of silence is suitably respectful of each other’s own thoughts. Louis is unsure how to answer.

“It was my thoughts,” he says, at last. The sun is climbing across the sky, and they have forgotten the passing of time. “Sometimes they shall cross into my dreams. It is nothing.”

Again, Harry’s arms cross further over Louis’s body, as if he can force him to rest. “And what are these thoughts?”

Louis would not speak of them, if he could avoid doing so. They are dark, and he is not always so. What man would prefer to stay in the dark?

He tells Harry as such, and seeks to move so that he may recover a bottle. Yet Harry’s arms are so heavy.

“Would you give me such an answer?” Harry is curious tonight. Louis cannot answer him, for he is not sure himself of what he thinks. They are merely nightmares.

Now, his exhale is deep for it is honest. “I would give you the answer you deserve, but I do not know it.” Harry’s fingers have found Louis’s own at last, and they mesh easily. Each word wakes him further, but does not take away his fatigue. “Do not think me a liar. I am sure I could not bear such an opinion.”

Harry brushes aside the mockery as though it were never spoken. How wondrous it must be, to have such focus. “Then tell me of your dream. I will not rest again until I have heard you tell me something of you, at least.”

“Are my thoughts so interesting, then?” Louis asks, but he relents when Harry’s fingers move so that the chill air shall cool Louis’s skin. “I saw myself alone. There was a flame on the sea, and I wanted very much to reach it, but I could not fight the waves. I suppose I must have drowned.”

The silence is loud, as a silence is not supposed to be. Surely silences are blessed, for no one can spoil them.

“It is a strange dream to be having, on a boat,” Harry says. It is true. There are fears, perhaps, awoken by the might of the waves and the majesty that carries him. “I must wonder. Was I so lost, to have left you alone? How terrible of me.”

It is not a masterpiece novel, or even a small great; it is a quickly strung sentence. It calms Louis as no other words could.

“You cannot trail me always. We are very different people.” Louis reminds him gently. It does not sound as gentle as he would have wished.

A minute of silence. How it carries on, when there is no one to fill it.

Harry’s words are muffled by Louis’s neck. “I may try, if you will allow me.”

Louis allows him a great many things in the hours they have.

* * *

Somehow, Harry’s garments have come across to Louis’s room. Louis makes use of them, large though they are, and clothes himself only in one of Harry’s robes; it is of black silk, and patterned with crimson thread. Harry tells him it is from China, and brought over by a relative. It slips over his skin like running water.  
He does not wear anything else.

There is a full bottle of champagne hidden in one of his boxes. They have it all to themselves, taking long swigs without care for finding the flutes. Louis knows there are some, in this room; they are blue rimmed and made of crystal. There is no need for them, since it is only them.

It is still an hour before they need make themselves elegant. Harry’s hair is a mess, falling out of place and he is spread along the sofa. His body is long lines and smooth curves. No painting may compare; no statue with white marble veins.

What a mystery. How can he have come to this? It is unlike him to smile so often.  
He does so unconsciously, and Harry tells him he wishes for a charcoal stick so he may have it as a reminder. “I wish you were to smile more,” he adds, since the subject is never fully dropped, “It becomes you far more than a frown.”

Louis frowns in reply, turning down his lips until he is grotesque. “Am I not lovely now? Would you not prefer me this way?” It is odd how he is no longer cold, even when the silk is hardly warming. They talk when they could read, and it is talk of everything that may come to be.

“I believe there is no way in which I would not prefer you. You seem changed in each light.”

How green Harry seems this morning. His is a child, almost, grown too quickly and pushed towards Louis so that he may teach him of the world. Has there ever been anything as wide as Harry’s eyes? Louis is sure nothing has; yet he is drunk on rich champagne. His world slips in front of him. He does not slip, for he is sitting, and then he is lying against Harry’s body.

For once, he is the drunker of the two. He shall sing it to the sky. Each man shall be roused until they know of his victory. “I can hear your heartbeat,” he confides to Harry. At the least, his voice is strong. Far stronger than him. “I consider it to be far too steady.”

“I wish you would not talk so,” Harry whispers. It is a loud whisper. “You are tarnishing the moment.” Then he laughs as though there has never been such a lie, and Louis joins him since everything makes wonderful sense. It is not often he smokes -he is very laissez faire with the whole enterprise- but he would have one in his hand this morning that he may blow it towards Harry. Perhaps they would share it together.

He cannot remember where the cigarettes are. “I do no such thing. You live so that you may hear me discourse in this way. My speeches shall remind you of great battles and greater rulers-”

It is Harry, with his long fingered hands, who interrupts him. Those hands find Louis’s hair, twisting the strands and loosening them. “It is late, and we shall be missed.”

If he fancied, Louis could fight the statement. Yet it is far too true for him to consider the notion, and he is a fair man when he tries. (That itself is a scarcity).

Still he kisses Harry deeply, his tongue tracking a new path. The hour is not so late, the sun not so high that they do not have this for themselves.

* * *

They sit apart at luncheon. Louis is sat between his sisters, and they do not talk. A woman further down vows that one of her maids has stolen her emeralds, and Louis cannot think of these people. Harry is across from him; he raises a small toast with his glass, and Louis returns it. The both of them are surreptitious. Louis feels that they are as open as the sky above them.

The last time is in the interlude between lunch and dinner. They do not think of it as the last time; yet Louis goes slowly. He has Harry spread beneath him until he is unwound. The sheets yield under their bodies. Harry yields under Louis’s touch. They both fall apart, and then they are remade so that they are far more than they were.  
Is that true? Louis does not know. He feels as if it is.

Harry’s hands are searching: they caress Louis, his hair and his skin from the backs of his thighs to his arms. They hold the sheets so tightly his knuckles show.

Surely there is no time left to them. Still Louis moves ever so slow. It is slower than a ship coming to harbour. There is no one to guide Louis but Harry. It is all he needs.

There is no urge to mark Harry this time. He is already here.

From the darkened corners of his mind, Louis thinks of the quartet at dinner. They had played a tune Louis did not know; the melody haunts him here. The music is in Harry’s voice, how it cracks when he calls for Louis, when there are no words and only sounds.

He is driven mad with it. Maybe he is not. Is this sanity, Louis wonders, how every man feels? He is sure they are much more than men. They are two boys pretending that they are Gods in this minute.

Under him, Harry is calling his name. Even now, Louis moves so slowly.

There are no hours left.

* * *

It is past eleven. Louis is not sure of the exact minutes. He knows the sky is black and it is littered with small lights.

Everything around him shudders; he is certain that everything in his room shall fall, but none of it does. It passes in a moment, as though it is a passing thought of a earthquake. There is something wrong, he is sure, but Harry is sleeping next to him and has not awoken.

His room is in darkness, and he is moving from it. Still Harry remains resting. Louis wonders what it would take to wake him, as he changes his clothes so that he may find someone who knows more than he. Tonight would have been the one to have sat to watch the sunrise.

He chances a look out the glass. The sea is black, and it is still.

White walls and thick carpet. There is no one in sight, until a man rounds the corner in the crisp uniform of an officer. His face is weary, but his eyes are afraid.

Louis commands him stop, and it is two tries before any notice is paid. His heartbeat is out of time, and he cannot help but wonder at it. “What was it that we felt just now?”

The officer, with his large eyes, does not seem to know how to reply. There is a lifejacket over his arm.

“The ship,” Louis elaborates. He is pressing the point as all speakers must. “There was something the matter. Is it serious?”

Louis had not noticed before. His eyes were trained elsewhere. There is much white on this boat; on the walls, on the uniforms of the crew. He is sure that it is sure to become dirtied.

Behind him, the door creaks open. It is a fool’s mistake; Louis is as much, and he turns. Harry has on his nightshirt and his trousers, but it is nothing Louis can hide. “Who is this?” Queries Harry: if only he would shut the door. Yet the officer seems to not realise Harry has appeared.

“Liam Payne,” he murmurs at last. Louis is sure he is in a daze. “And I cannot swim.”

If there were someone else to handle this, Louis would call them. Where is an Irish drunkard now? They are left with a man who can tell them nothing. “Liam,” he says, and he repeats it so that he may have his attention. “Liam, you must listen. What has happened to the ship?”

Liam’s eyes are larger than anything Louis has seen. “We have struck an iceberg, Sir.”

It is a wonder the ceiling does not collapse. Louis is sure that the walls shall cave in, and it will bury him as his thoughts bury him now. There is nothing he can say: he opens his mouth only to close it.

Harry, coming to stand beside Louis, answers first. “Surely it is well?” Says the idealist. “She is unsinkable.”

The night is dark, Louis knows. It is as dark as the ocean waters, and as perilous.

“I do not know. I am afraid I do not know.” It is the last he says before he escapes them both, stepping away. Louis thinks of what he had said, Liam Payne; he could not swim.

Louis cannot swim. He has never had cause to learn.

Gently, there is a hand come to rest on his forearm. It is Harry; of course it is. “We shall be fine, won’t we?” He asks, and he is as young in those words that Louis is old.

Louis promises.  
It is the first he makes that is false.

* * *

The world is a wreck around them.

Someone has set off a burst of fireworks. They are Roman candles held in the sky; the black is smeared with spots of florid colour. He is on the deck, and it is splintering under him, it seems. It is not.

There are so many feet, and so many hands. Faces blur together and he cannot recognise one.

Somewhere, the string players strike a refrain. It soaks Louis with it’s lilting notes, and they are lies. Surely the sky is to burn around them- yet it already is. It is alit with flames.

Louis thinks of eyes so fearful that the mouth could not speak. He feels it in his veins, but it is not for him. He is every man looking for another; there are not enough boats. Simple wooden frames that could save his life, and he will not take it. A woman is screaming, and a baby’s wails join her.

Beside him, for a flash: there is Liam, whose uniform is creased. He is helping a child into a boat that is too full.

If he could, he would shout for Harry, but he would be drowned. What an odd choice of words. Earlier, he had misjudged; it is far more wintry than he thought. The night is as snow on his body, and he shall freeze before he found him. But Louis is burning, his eyes and his cheeks, and he cannot speak a word. He is struck mute.

Where had he seen him last? They had become separated on deck, borne away by different tides.

Desperation or despair. It is a question of whether he has laid down his arms. He would become a warrior if he could; he would lead armies to battle so that he may find Harry.

There are thousands around him. Why are there so many people? They should be on the boats.

Someone shouts that the boats are full. Another calls that there are some still left. Louis wonders if Harry has found himself on one; it is not for himself that he is afraid.

His eyes are blinded with the explosions above him. His ears are deafened with human fear. They are all attempting to escape, and Louis is attempting to seek.

At last, he is sure of what is means. He is the fool, and he wishes he were drunk so that he may see this out.

Perhaps he is in a sea of the dead.

This time, the splinters under his feet are real. The boat it tipping, and he is sliding until he is not.  His feet have carried him to the stern, and his hands are gripping the railings much as they have gripped sheets. There is so many of them, and some fall to the water.

Then there is a thunder clap, but it is not thunder, and they are falling to the sea.

Louis is slammed into the wood, but he is a fraught man. He cannot look behind him. There are less people, and they are in the water.

Someone has clutched at his hand.

“Would you believe,” Louis says, and his voice is as still as the ocean, “That I have been searching for you?”

They do not have time to speak. Harry is in front of him, and he is faster than the pull of the ocean. They cannot escape, though they try.

He tells Harry he is not afraid. Like every man at his death, he is exactly that.

Now it has reached them, the water is not as black as it seems. He does not have a jacket; Harry has only his shirt. There are many people surrounding them. Louis feels as though they are alone. How strange of Harry, to smile now; yet he is there, and he is still whole. He does not seem afraid, so Louis is not.

He still keeps hold of his hand. Harry stays at his side, so that he may die with him.

The ocean is as cold as the air is sharp.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem is 'Flower of Love' by Oscar Wilde, which is much better than it's pretentious title (sorry, Oscar).
> 
> Of course, the boat is the Titanic, so this is partly in memory of all those who died that night.


End file.
